The Adventure of the Country Birthday
by SeenaC
Summary: John's plans for his birthday get changed when Sherlock experiences a crisis.  Part of my continuing narrative, but takes place between "Enemy of My Enemy" & "The Air Conditioner."  Warnings inside. Finished!  Feedback pretty please?
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** This story takes place between "The Enemy of My Enemy" and "The Air Conditioner." Because it was so fun with "The Adventure of the Swinging Snitch" many of the plot points of this story are drawn from one of the ACD stories. I'm sure it won't take you guys long to figure out which one! Any feedback is loved. Constructive criticism is inspirational!

**Disclaimer:** Don't own, no profits, only respectful admiration intended...

**Warnings:** Adult subjects, nudity, violence (off camera - so to speak), gets a little slashy in some places, but nothing openly revealed. The story probably doesn't really earn an "M" rating, but I figure better safe than sorry.

The Adventure of the Country Birthday

"Hello?"

"Dr. John Watson?"

"Yes, speaking."

"You are zee friend of Monsieur Holmes?"

"Yes?" _(Oh dear God, what's happened?)_

"Zis is zee 'otel Grande in Lyons. He has asked us to call you. He is not well, can you come?"

"Is he injured?"

"Non, but he is very sick and weak. He says you are his doctor, and he will not go to hospital."

"Yes, I will come as soon as I can. Please, continue to check on him until I get there. If he gets worse call an ambulance. I'll call back with my estimated time of arrival."

"Merci, Dr. Watson."

"Merci, I'll be there soon."

I took a deep breath, then started checking train schedules. I knew that what I wanted to bring with me to France would be a hassle to try and get on a plane. Although it would take some extra precious hours, I felt it was better to not have to get delayed at the airport and have my medical equipment confiscated.

I started to make a mental checklist of what I should bring. Sherlock had been on his own in France for two months. Since the hotel said he wasn't injured, I was fairly certain that Sherlock was probably suffering from exhaustion, malnourishment, and quite possibly dehydration.

As I began throwing stuff together in a bag, I was caught between worry, anger, and pride. An odd combination of emotions, but one I frequently experienced since I began living with Sherlock.

I was proud of him, because I had just heard on the news earlier that day that the case he had been working on (working himself to death on, apparently) had just come to a spectacularly successful conclusion. His name wasn't mentioned, but I knew that the parade of bank executives from multiple institutions and countries being shown in handcuffs and shoved into police cars had been arrested through his efforts. According to the reports, they had been identified as laundering money for terrorist organizations and had been apprehended after a long and involved investigation. Millions of pounds had been confiscated, kept out of the hands of dangerous people.

I had sent him a congratulatory text which hadn't answered. At the time I figured he was probably still meeting with government and police officials.

I was worried now that perhaps this time Sherlock had pushed his physical limits too far. He tended to not eat, sometimes even forgetting to drink while on a case. His sleep patterns, which were always erratic, also tended to suffer while he was intent on an investigation. I had made him promise me to treat himself kindly, but it seems he didn't keep his promise. And that made me just a little bit angry.

Two months ago Mycroft had approached Sherlock about working with Interpol on investigating some suspicious financial activity in France. Usually Sherlock refused outright to either a) work for Mycroft, or b) work anywhere but London.

I expected an immediate refusal, but I looked at Sherlock, and he looked back at me. An unspoken memory hung between us: Alisha's beaten body.1

"Give me the details," Sherlock had said grimly. He was in France less than twelve hours later.

I had been in contact with him sporadically since he left, although I generally let him contact me, as I knew he resented interruptions while working a case. His calls and texts were brief as he didn't want to compromise the details of the case until it was time to move against the guilty parties.

I had been worried that he probably wasn't caring for himself properly, but I had resisted trying to be his long-distance nanny. After all, he had lived on his own before me. But he had never worked at this intensity for this length of time, and apparently it had been simply too much.

As I got in the cab to go to the train station I called the hotel back to give them my approximate arrival time. I again asked them to keep checking on Sherlock and to get him to the hospital if the situation appeared serious.

I then tried to call Sherlock. He didn't answer. I sent him a text:

_On my way to you. Call me back or I call Mycroft - JW_

A minute later my phone rang.

"Hello," I said.

"Hello John," Sherlock's voice sounded at least reasonably strong.

"I'll be there in about seven hours or so. How are you?"

There was a pause.

"Not good."

"When was the last time you ate?"

"A meal, or at all?"

"A meal."

"Wednesday night."

I bit my lip, it was Sunday.

"What have you had since then?"

"Um, a sandwich. Some fruit, some pastries...I think that's it."

"Today?"

"Nothing today."

"Right," I said, "are you drinking fluids?"

Another worrying pause...

"Sort of."

"OK, Sherlock, you seem to be coherent, so here's what I want you to do: try drinking at least six to eight ounces of fluid every hour until I get there. Call room service and see what they have in the way of juices and soups. Have them bring whatever they've got. Avoid any citrus, it would probably upset your stomach. If you start to feel dizzy or confused, call for help. Do you understand me?"

"Yes."

"Ok, Sherlock, just take it easy and I'll be there as soon as I can. Call me or text if you need anything, ok?"

"I will. Thanks."

"Ok, see you soon."

" Bye, John."

"Bye."

I hung up, then made another phone call.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Colonel? It's John Watson."

"Hi John! How are you?"

"Um, I'm fine, thanks. I'm actually on my way to the train station, I have to go to France. My friend Sherlock Holmes has fallen ill there and I got a phone call this morning from his hotel."

"Oh, that's a shame! Is he going to be ok?"

"Probably. I'm guessing that it's simply exhaustion from overwork. I'm sure you remember how I told you that he was working in France for the last few months."

"Yes, of course. Well, I imagine you're calling to cancel your visit for later this week."

"Well, I have to say that it looks like I won't be able to make it."

"That's too bad, John. I was looking forward to your visit."

"Yes, I was looking forward to it as well. I'm really sorry about this."

"Don't be sorry! I know you have to take care of your friend. It would be ungrateful of me in the extreme to deprive someone else of the attention that I benefitted from myself! You are a remarkable doctor, John, I'm sure Sherlock's recovery will be rapid."

My friend paused, then continued, "You know, if rest and quiet is what your friend needs, the two of you could both come for a visit. That way, he can still be under your care, and you can keep your birthday plans."

"That's very generous of you, Colonel. I'll have to see exactly how sick Sherlock is, though, before I can make any definite plans. Also, I would have to see how Sherlock feels about it. He's been away from home for two months now, and he generally hates to leave London."

"Well, just let me know. I've got nothing on, so my door is open to either or both of you. I only ask for 24 hours notice, so my housekeeper doesn't have a fit."

I laughed, "Thanks Colonel."

"Quite all right. I'll let you go, just ring me when you know. And John?"

"Yes?"

"Please remember it's 'Mike' now, not Colonel."

"Right, sorry Mike."

We laughed and hung up.

It only took a few minutes after hanging up for me to begin worrying about what state I would find Sherlock in when I got to France...

To be continued...

1 See my story "The Enemy of My Enemy."


	2. Chapter 2

The Adventure of the Country Birthday -2

After I was settled on the train I purposely tried to distract myself from my worry about Sherlock by thinking about my upcoming birthday. It was less than a week away, and had been occupying a good deal of my mind lately.

Turning forty had me more anxious than I cared to admit, even to myself. I felt that once that day was past, I could no longer consider myself to be "young." I would be halfway to eighty. Statistics said that more than half my life was over.

Part of my problem had been the absence of Sherlock. Without him there was no danger or excitement. I was just a middle-aged, retired army doctor with fairly regular locum work. I came home to an empty, quiet flat that was now devoid of body parts, odd smells, and precariously perched scientific equipment. There were no chases through alleys, bullets in the wall, or arguments about turtle hatchlings in the bathtub. In short, I had been thoroughly miserable and lonely.

Without knowing when Sherlock would be back again, I had plenty of time to think about my upcoming birthday and what I was going to do, at least privately, to deal with it. Harry wanted to throw me a huge "do", but I quickly told her I had other plans, which forced me to come up with a plan. I knew that Harry's idea of a "proper" fortieth birthday party would be something that was really more suitable for someone twenty years younger. Something that I would have enjoyed at that time in my life, but not now.

Fortunately for me, I was contacted by a friend from Afghanistan, Colonel Hayter. I had performed surgery on him, and we became friends during his recovery. He was now retired and living in a large, country home in Surrey. He rang me up the day after Harry's call and asked if I'd like to come down for a week's visit whenever was convenient for me. I eagerly accepted the offer and we fixed on the week of my birthday. With Sherlock away, the prospect of turning forty while enjoying a quiet week in the country... walking, fishing, biking...was very appealing. I had been looking forward to it.

This train of thought led me back to Sherlock and my current situation. I didn't mind the delay or cancellation of my trip to Surrey as long as Sherlock would be alright. And of course, this caused me to begin worrying about what condition I would find Sherlock in. Try as I might, it seemed I couldn't shut out my concern for any length of time.

_***break***_

I arrived at the Grande Hotel in Lyon and was shown up to Sherlock's room. Evidently, Interpol treated their consultants well, because it was actually a very posh suite. I found Sherlock on the couch in the sitting room wrapped in a blanket. My heart immediately climbed in my throat. I quickly swallowed and went into professional mode.

"Hello John," Sherlock said, his cheeks alarmingly sunken. His eyes, thankfully, were bright and alert. He seemed pleased to see me.

"Hi Sherlock, how are you feeling?" I immediately put my hand to his forehead and took his wrist in my other hand to check his pulse.

"Slightly better."

"Have you been drinking like I told you?"

"Yes."

"Good. Let's get you into the bedroom so you can lay down on the bed and I can examine you properly."

Sherlock seemed to hesitate.

"Sherlock, you need a doctor. I came from London to help you, now let's go."

I pulled him gently off the couch, and he stood and went to the bedroom. I went to the closet and found a bathrobe.

"Here, take off your clothes, put this on, and give me a call when you're ready."

Sherlock goggled at me.

"Sherlock, I can tell just by looking at your face that you are pretty seriously malnourished. I need to take a good look at you to assess your condition to see if NOT going to the hospital is even an option."

"You want me to take off everything?"

"Yes, everything," I said firmly. "Then put on the robe and get on the bed and let me know you're ready."

He took the robe from my hands and reluctantly walked into the bedroom.

While I waited for his signal I got out the instruments I felt I would need.

"Ok, I'm ready," came Sherlock's voice from the bedroom.

I entered with my equipment and began by putting a thermometer in his mouth. I then took his blood pressure, which was well below normal, but not low enough to panic me. Next I listened to his heart and lungs and retrieved the thermometer. His temperature was also significantly lower than normal. Then I slid the robe from his shoulders and opened it up.

Of course, I had already seen some of his body from the exam so far, and I could see that he was painfully thin. But seeing his entire naked body was a shock. For a moment, my professional detachment was in danger. His collar bones stood out from his shoulders , separated from them by large hollows. Every rib stood out sharp against his pale skin. His abdomen sank so deeply from the bottom of his ribs that I imagined I could span his waist with my hands. The bones of his pelvis stood out sharply. He was almost a skeleton with skin.

"Ok, Sherlock, can you turn over?"

He looked at me sadly, then turned over.

The back view was much the same. His shoulder blades stood out in sharp points and I could see every one of his vertebrae. Further down, where there should have been rounded buttocks there was only sunken flesh and jutting pelvic bones.

"Ok, turn back over and put the robe back on," I said.

After he had done that I sat down on the bed next to him.

"I probably don't need to tell you this, but you are severely undernourished. If this were to have gone on much longer, your organs would have started to fail."

I handed him a container.

"Take this into the bathroom and empty your bladder in it."

He stared at me as if I had broken out in green dots.

"I want to look at your urine and I need to start measuring how much fluid your body is processing. Also, when did you last have a bowel movement?"

He was still staring at me, shocked.

"Sherlock, I need to know these things in order to help you."

"I...I don't know when it was. It's probably been...several days."

"Ok, well, please tell me when you have your next one. We're going to have to restart your system, gently."

I was still holding out the urine container, he took it slowly, then went to the bathroom as if he were being led to his execution.

A few minutes later he came out with the container, his face flushed. He wouldn't look at me.

I was actually pleasantly surprised by the results. After recording the amount and noting the visual characteristics I dumped it out in the toilet and came back out to find Sherlock reclined on the bed, looking extremely woebegone.

I sat back down next to him.

"Ok Sherlock, here's my opinion: I would like you to go to the hospital, as I'd like to see you on an IV drip for the next twenty-four hours. However, I don't think that it is absolutely critical that you do go. I can take care of you here, as long as you cooperate with me and do everything as I tell you. If you don't do as I say, you will continue to deteriorate and you WILL be in the hospital for certain. I know that you have a fairly strong constitution, so you should be able to go home after a day or two if you will work with me."

Sherlock didn't say anything for a few minutes, just looked at me, his eyes huge in his thin face. Suddenly, his eyes were swimming with tears.

"John," he said with a sob.

Instinctually, I reached for him, and he collapsed in my arms.

"I'm sorry," he cried into my neck.

"What are you sorry for?" I asked as I held him.

"I don't know. I just forgot, I forgot about everything except the case."

"I know, I know. It's ok now. It'll be alright."

He continued to cry. I eased us back on the bed so that I could hold him close and comfortably. With his lowered body temperature, it was probably best to keep him as warm as possible.

It didn't take long for him to cry himself to sleep, his head pillowed on my chest.

To be continued...


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Apologies for the delay in updating this story. It's the end of the semester, so my schedule has been super tight. And, further apologies for the _very_ slow start to the plot of this story, but it's almost more of a "slice of life" type piece than a short-story in the classic sense. Warnings for hints of slash, especially if your goggles are on (or even if they aren't)...

The Adventure of the Country Birthday - 3

_"What are you sorry for?" I asked as I held him._

_"I don't know. I just forgot, I forgot about everything except the case."_

_"I know, I know. It's ok now. It'll be alright."_

_He continued to cry. I eased us back on the bed so that I could hold him close and comfortably. With his lowered body temperature, it was probably best to keep him as warm as possible._

_It didn't take long for him to cry himself to sleep, his head pillowed on my chest._

After about 30 minutes I realized I had been drowsing a bit myself. I had also been absent-mindedly stroking my fingers through Sherlock's curls. His hair had gotten longer. He probably hadn't had it cut since he left London.

I gently shook him awake. "Hey, Sherlock," I said quietly. "I think you probably want to get dressed, and I want you to drink some more."

He yawned, stretched and sat up. "I'm sorry John," he mumbled.

"Sorry? What for?"

"For weeping all over you like that."

I shrugged. "It's a natural, physical response to stress. And you've been under enough stress to kill a person."

He gave me one of his long, intense stares but said nothing.

"Come on," I said finally, "it's going to be night soon, so put on your pajamas while I get some stuff for you to sample from room service. I want to try you out on a few things, and then listen to how your gut reacts."

After all that was done to my satisfaction I insisted that Sherlock go to bed. I warned him that I would be waking him during the night to keep pushing fluids. He agreed to go to bed as long as I would accompany him. I was slightly uncomfortable with this arrangement, but consented because my shoulder was already stiff from the train ride and a night on the couch wouldn't help it any.

It was clear that after his small dinner that Sherlock was exhausted. We got ready for bed and Sherlock tumbled in, visibly drooping. I climbed in and turned out the bedside lamp.

After a short pause I heard a sleepy mumble, "I'm never doing something like this again...without you with me."

I chuckled into the darkness, "I missed you too, Sherlock."

We spent the next day in the hotel room. I continued to monitor Sherlock's physical condition and his intake of food and fluids. By evening I was quite happy with his progress. I told him I didn't have to monitor his urine output anymore (that made him happy) and that if he felt up to it, we could leave in the morning for home.

I only got him up once during that second night, to have a drink and a small bite to eat. He grumbled slightly, but cooperated and quickly fell asleep again. By mutual, but unspoken agreement we shared the bed again.

The next morning Sherlock declared himself up for the trip home, so I packed his things while he showered and dressed. Most of his things were going to be shipped back home, as he had accumulated too many things during the two months for us to manage on the train.

After breakfast Sherlock made some last-minute phone calls tying up a few threads of the case, and then we set off for the train station.

Once on the train I was next to the window on my left and Sherlock was on my right. I encouraged him to try and sleep until we switched trains in Paris. He nodded and promptly curled his legs up on the seat and rested his head against my shoulder and closed his eyes.

_What happened to the aloof man that left London two months ago?_ I wondered, smiling to myself. _Ah well, once he has time to recuperate he'll be back to his old self again, I'm sure._

The trip home was uneventful, although I could tell it took its toll on Sherlock. By the time we got to Baker Street he was almost staggering with exhaustion. Mrs. Hudson could tell that now was not the time for talking, but instead helped me get him upstairs and settled on the couch. She left with the promise of chicken soup later.

After I gave Sherlock a brief check-up he promptly fell asleep. I took off his shoes and tucked a blanket around him. I breathed a sigh of relief that we were home and with some time to recuperate Sherlock would be fine. I went downstairs to help Mrs. Hudson with the soup.

The next morning Sherlock wanted to immediately resume his life before France. After showering and dressing he began working on both his laptop and phone, trying to catch up on everything that he had missed in the last two months. After a few hours he tossed both aside in disgust and started digging through what was left of his experiments.

Naturally, most of his experiments had been dismantled, binned, or otherwise disrupted. Within the hour he was back on the couch in a fit of depression. At first he wouldn't even respond to me.

Finally I suggested that maybe he play his violin. He looked at me sadly. "I wouldn't trust myself with it right now. I might drop it."

He heaved a sigh and resumed studying the ceiling.

After a minute he moaned, "I want to do something, but my legs feel shaky and I can't think properly."

I sat in my armchair, pondering a possible solution. Then, I remembered the Colonel's invitation, but I wasn't sure how it would be received.

"Well Sherlock, er, tomorrow's my birthday," I began.

He turned and looked at me with a gloomy expression.

"I'm sorry, John. I didn't know."

"Never mind that," I waved his apology off. "What I was going to say was, that I had made plans to visit an old friend from the army. He has a big house in Surrey and I was going to stay with him for a few days this week, before I got your message."

Sherlock's expression seemed to get even gloomier.

"When I called him to cancel, he offered to have us both down, if we'd like."

I could have sworn that Sherlock's lower lip was actually trembling.

"So, what do you think? A few days in the peace and quiet of the country? It'll give you some time to get more rest and some strength back. Before trying to tackle...all this." I waved my hand around the flat.

"You want me to go with you to visit a stranger in the country?" It sounded like I had proposed that he put his head in a noose.

"The colonel is a very nice bloke. It's just him and his housekeeper, no wife, no kids, just a big house where you can be completely solitary if you want. I understand it's a quiet neighborhood with lots of nice routes to walk, although I'm not sure if you're quite up to that yet."

Sherlock still looked doubtful.

"Look," I continued, "I'm your friend and your doctor. If I didn't think that this would be good for you, I wouldn't suggest it. I think that you and the colonel will get along just fine. And if I for one minute think that the situation is not benefitting your mental and physical health we will return to London immediately."

Sherlock looked thoughtfully at me, then slowly nodded. "All right," he said, "let's go then."

The next morning saw us on our way to the train station. Sherlock was certainly stronger than he had been just a few days before. He insisted on carrying his own bag, rather than letting me do it. He was still painfully thin, of course, but his step was firmer and the dark circles under his eyes had faded.

Much to my surprise, he again insisted on using me as his personal pillow on the train for the hour-long trip. I wondered how long this "cuddly" Sherlock was going to remain and if I was going to receive some raised eyebrows from the colonel if such behavior continued. I didn't say anything to Sherlock, though. He was clearly still emotionally as well as physically fragile and I didn't want to cause him any form of distress.

As the train pulled out of the station on its way to Reigate Sherlock shifted against me slightly and said, "Happy birthday, John. I'm sorry I forgot."

I cleared my throat, "Well, what did I get you for your birthday this year, Sherlock?"

Sherlock raised his head, "Oh yeah, that's right! You forgot _my_ birthday and you made up for it by letting me experiment with the spleen in the microwave."

I shuddered, "Yeah, that was a mistake."

Sherlock snuggled back down against me saying, "I don't feel so bad now."

"You shouldn't. All I really want is for you to get better quickly. I'm getting flabby from all the not-running around I've done for the past two months."

TBC...


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Apologies for the tardiness of this update. Not only was my schedule packed, but I had a health emergency this past week. Also, with the way this story is going, I am going to have to make some minor revisions to "The Air Conditioner." This is what happens when you write stories out of sequence! :-)

Warnings: This chapter contains elements of slash, but still nothing fully realized.

Disclaimer: Still not mine. Only respectful playing with characters/plots for which I have deep affection.

The Adventure of the Country Birthday - 4

_As the train pulled out of the station on its way to Reigate Sherlock shifted against me slightly and said, "Happy birthday, John. I'm sorry I forgot."_

_I cleared my throat, "Well, what did I get you for your birthday this year, Sherlock?"_

_Sherlock raised his head, "Oh yeah, that's right! You forgot my birthday and you made up for it by letting me experiment with the spleen in the microwave."_

_I shuddered, "Yeah, that was a mistake."_

_Sherlock snuggled back down against me saying, "I don't feel so bad now."_

_"You shouldn't. All I really want is for you to get better quickly. I'm getting flabby from all the not-running around I've done for the past two months."_

The short trip down to Surrey passed with me looking out the window and Sherlock napping against my good shoulder. Once we arrived in Reigate, I spotted the figure of Colonel Hayter almost immediately, waiting for us.

The Colonel and I shook hands warmly and I introduced Sherlock to him.

"Mr. Holmes, I'm so pleased to finally meet you. I've read your website and John's blog with interest for quite some time now."

"Please, call me Sherlock."

They shook hands, and the Colonel continued, "Sherlock, I want to thank you for the work you did in France. What you've accomplished amounts to saving the lives of my fellow soldiers. And I know what a personal toll it has taken on you."

Sherlock flushed slightly.

"Thank you Colonel."

"Mike, please! Shall we head for the car then?"

Sherlock and I nodded agreement, and the three of us walked toward the car park. The Colonel and Sherlock were slightly ahead of me.

"My housekeeper has prepared two guest bedrooms for you, unless the two of you prefer to share?"

I opened my mouth, but Sherlock spoke first, "Thanks, John and I will share."

My mouth remained hanging open as the Colonel looked back at me and winked. I could feel myself flush. _What the hell was Sherlock doing?_

On the way to the house the Colonel pointed out local features of interest, but I wasn't paying attention. I was too flustered over Sherlock's statement that we would share a room and the Colonel's reaction. I was calculating how long it was going to take for word to spread to all of my army buddies that I was now gay and in a relationship with the world's only Consulting Detective.

We were greeted at the house by the Colonel's housekeeper who had apparently been briefed on Sherlock's condition as she immediately began fussing over him. The Colonel waved her off.

"Not now, Mrs. Brown. Let the boys get their stuff stowed in their room. I promise they'll be back down for tea shortly. They'll be staying in the Lewis room, I'll show them up myself."

We followed the Colonel through the house and upstairs as he gave a brief history of the place and his connection to it.

"You can imagine my shock, I suppose, to find out that this branch of the Hayters had completely died off, and I was the next of kin. I came home from Afghanistan to find myself in possession of a manor. Here we are, the Lewis room, named after some long-dead ancestor of mine. I suppose it was his. This room is nice, has a good view of the front grounds and has an en suite bathroom. I'll leave you two to get settled. Come back downstairs for refreshments whenever you're ready. I suppose it's nearly lunchtime as it is."

The Colonel left and shut the door behind him. Sherlock had put his bag on the large bed and busied himself with unrolling his carefully packed trousers. I dropped my bag on the floor and stared at him, not sure how to begin what was sure to be an unpleasant conversation.

After a few seconds Sherlock looked up, "Problem, John?"

"Er, why did you tell the Colonel, er Mike, that we would share a room?"

"I thought you would want to."

"What? Why?"

For the briefest instant, I thought I saw an expression of hurt cross Sherlock's face, but it was quickly gone and he resumed his unpacking.

"I thought you still wanted to keep a close eye on my progress toward health."

"Well, yes I do, but I don't have to sleep with you to do that!"

Sherlock stopped what he was doing and straightened up to give me one of his appraising stares.

"I see," he said, "this is a macho-army thing isn't it? You don't want to look gay in front of the Colonel?"

"No," I protested, but I could feel my face turning red.

"Honestly John, do you think the Colonel cares if we're lovers or not? And aren't you a bit old for having immature insecurities about sexuality?"

Maybe because it was my birthday the barb really hit me hard. I stared back at him, too angry and hurt to say anything. He gazed back at me, his face impassive.

After a second I turned away and went to the bathroom and shut the door emphatically. I angrily washed my hands and face, furious with Sherlock and even more furious with myself for letting him get to me.

After taking somewhat longer than was strictly necessary, I came out of the bedroom to find Sherlock lying on the bed looking up at the ceiling.

"Coming downstairs?" I asked stiffly.

He heaved a sigh and said, "I suppose so."

As we came down the stairs the Colonel greeted us in the foyer.

"There you are! Mrs. Brown has luncheon prepared in the breakfast room which is off the kitchen in the back of the house. I have all my meals there, as the dining room is a bit large and dour for everyday use, especially when there's only two people in the house."

He led us to a bright, cheerful room decorated in yellows and blues where we found tea, sandwiches, fresh fruit and a beautiful lemon and blueberry pound cake.

The Colonel winked at me, "I told Mrs. Brown it was your birthday, so expect special desserts all day today."

After the three of us had eaten the Colonel asked us what we wanted to do for the afternoon. Sherlock announced his intention to take a nap, which I approved of.

"I'd like to see the countryside," I said. "You told me that there are some good walks to be had around here?"

"Yes there certainly are. Why don't I take you around while Sherlock has his nap? We can all meet back here for tea later."

Sherlock and I went back upstairs after lunch. He undressed and got into the bed while I changed into my sturdy boots. There was still an awkward silence between us.

As I got ready to leave I said, "Have a good rest. I'll see you later."

Sherlock mumbled something that sounded like "thanks" but I couldn't be sure.

I went back downstairs and met the Colonel. We went outside where he first took me around the grounds. We then headed along a path that followed a stream at the back of his property. The Colonel was kept busy giving the history of the house and its outbuildings and surviving grounds for the first twenty minutes or so. After he was done there was a short silence, then he began again.

"I'm really happy for you, John. Sherlock seems like a really great guy. I'm so glad that you've found someone."

I was turning red again, "No, Mike, it's not like that. We're not...a couple. We're just friends."

"Oh!" The Colonel sounded surprised. "I'm sorry. When I saw the two of you together you just looked...and then you're sharing a room. And the way you write about Sherlock on your blog... I'm sorry, I shouldn't have made any assumptions."

"But, Mike, you know I'm straight. And Sherlock...well, as he puts it, he's married to his work."

The Colonel looked at me and smiled. "Well, I've been following your blog since you began writing it. Whatever you and Sherlock may think, from the viewpoint of an outsider, it looks more like a ménage à trois."

I found I was staring open-mouthed at the Colonel.

"Sorry, John. I'll get my nose out of your private life. All I'll say is that in your blog you sound like a happier person than the John Watson I knew in Afghanistan."

The Colonel changed the subject, we resumed our walk, and nothing more about Sherlock was said.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Warnings for this chapter - alcohol use, karaoke abuse, gooey sentimentality :-)

Disclaimer: still not mine...

The Adventure of the Country Birthday - 5

_"But, Mike, you know I'm straight. And Sherlock...well, as he puts it, he's married to his work."_

_The Colonel looked at me and smiled. "Well, I've been following your blog since you began writing it. Whatever you and Sherlock may think, from the viewpoint of an outsider, it looks more like a ménage __à__ trois."_

_I found I was staring open-mouthed at the Colonel._

_"Sorry, John. I'll get my nose out of your private life. All I'll say is that in your blog you sound like a happier person than the John Watson I knew in Afghanistan."_

_The Colonel changed the subject, we resumed our walk, and nothing more about Sherlock was said._

After a rambling walk that lasted several hours, the Colonel and I made our way back to the house. We had decided that after tea the three of us would head into town for dinner and a few pints at the Colonel's favorite pub. We both agreed that we could call it a night when we saw Sherlock start to look fatigued.

Mrs. Brown had tea waiting for us when we got back to the house. She and Sherlock were chatting in the breakfast room. Or, I suppose I should say Mrs. Brown was chatting and Sherlock was pretending to listen.

Mrs. Brown had produced another cake, this one was pineapple with a rum glaze. Just like the previous cake it was delicious and I told her so. She smiled happily and declared that the best one was to come with dinner. She was very disappointed when the Colonel told her we would be going out.

Dinner and drinks at the pub was fairly low-key, just as I wanted it. The Colonel introduced me to a few of the regulars, who welcomed Sherlock and me as if we were old friends. Sherlock tried to be sociable, and managed to be polite, but was plainly embarrassed when the Colonel announced that he had been responsible for the terrorist money-laundering arrests. After receiving a round of congratulations he retreated as far into the background as he could and did a credible job of matching the wallpaper.

After dinner had been finished and about five rounds had been consumed the Colonel convinced the bartender to bring out the karaoke machine. This was bad, I knew what was coming. Once while on base during the Colonel's recovery we had temporary possession of a karaoke machine. I had thought that the Colonel and I had a gentlemen's agreement that that night would remain buried in history forever. But, the Colonel betrayed me and somehow got me to do my rendition of INXS's "Need You Tonight." There was much laughing and joking. One of the regulars did a Rick Astley number. After two more rounds, for some odd reason, the Colonel and I decided to do the Pet Shop Boys' duet with Dusty Springfield "What Have I Done to Deserve This?" To my eternal shame, I sang the Dusty Springfield part.

After that was over I decided to call it a night. My deciding factor was catching a glimpse of Sherlock. I was afraid if he rolled his eyes any harder that his eyeballs might permanently stick facing the wrong way in his head.

The three of us were driven home by another one of the regulars who hadn't been drinking. The Colonel thanked his friend profusely, but the friend laughed and said it was a birthday present to me.

When we got home we found Mrs. Brown's promised cake: a delectable concoction of strawberries, cake, and a creamy substance all rolled up together. It was delicious and we made a mess. The Colonel promised me that Mrs. Brown would take it as a compliment.

After that, we all went off to bed, the Colonel and I staggering just a bit. I wasn't nearly as drunk as I used to get on my birthdays when I was younger, but I was definitely feeling happy, maybe even a little giddy.

Once in the bedroom, I quickly shed my clothes for my pajamas, brushed my teeth and crawled into the bed without paying much attention to what Sherlock was doing. I was lying there when Sherlock turned out the light and crawled in on the other side. Through the window on the other side of the room, a crescent moon lit the sky.

I was admiring its silvery light when Sherlock spoke up beside me. "Did you have a good birthday, John?"

I chuckled, "Yes, it was a lot of fun, except the part when you called me old."

Sherlock sighed, "I didn't mean it that way."

"Oh yeah?"

"I only meant that you should be in a place in your life where you no longer worry about what people think about you."

"Hmmmm," I mumbled skeptically.

Sherlock raised up on one arm to look at me. The moon and starlight from the window reflected in his grey eyes, making them shine with a similar, silvery light.

"John?"

"Hmmm?"

"Have you thought about yourself as an old man?"

_What an odd question!_ "Not really, why?"

"I never thought that I would grow old. I never wanted to live that long. I thought, since you became a soldier, then joined up with me, that you probably felt the same."

"I guess I never really thought about it, but maybe you're right." I paused. "But it would be a shame for you to die young, Sherlock, you have so much to offer the world. Look at what you did just these past few months."

Sherlock flopped back onto the bed and there was a brief silence.

"I never wanted to live that long," he finally said again, "but now I do."

It took a moment, with my slightly impaired state, for the words to fully register. When they did, I felt as if I could barely breathe.

"Oh, Sherlock," I whispered. I didn't trust my voice not to crack. Tears began leaking out the corners of my eyes.

He sat up again and leaned over me, his unreadable, quicksilver eyes searching my face. He hesitantly reached out and caught one of my tears as it ran down my temple toward my ear. He moved his body slowly over to mine and then wrapped himself around me, with his head on my chest, just as he had done when he collapsed on me in Lyons.

I hugged him tightly to me and buried my face in his curls. I felt and heard a deep, contented rumble from somewhere in his chest.

In spite of my inebriation, I noticed that he was still all bones. This woke up the Dr. Watson in me who asked what the hell was I doing cuddling a patient _in bed? _A patient, the doctor reminded me, who was clearly still physically and emotionally vulnerable. _And what in God's name are you going to do when morning comes?_

Sherlock spoke again, "All my life I've moved through the world, but I never felt part of it." He paused. Then he continued quietly, "Now I have a place where I...make sense."

A few more tears leaked out of my eyes.

"Sherlock...you've done the same for me."

"I know."

There was no smugness in it, just an acknowledgement of the truth, but I couldn't help but chuckle over his blunt confidence.

"What?"

"Nothing. Goodnight Sherlock."

"Goodnight."

_GoodNIGHT Dr. Watson, I thought firmly. _

To be continued...


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Aw, heck! I had been agonizing ever since beginning this series about whether to actually ship these guys or not. But, I read in today's Telegraph - 24/5/2011 that Martin Freeman himself says that Sherlock is "the gayest story in the history of television" and says it's pretty obvious that the characters fall deeply in love. After giggling for about 10 minutes, I realized that I had come to what was really a foregone conclusion...but, you know, the course of true love never does run smooth...

Disclaimer: Still not mine...

The Adventure of the Country Birthday - 6

I slept more deeply than normal for me, most likely due to the alcohol consumption. When I awoke, the sunlight from the windows indicated that it was mid to late-morning.

_Well, here I go on the second half of my life,_ I thought to myself. Somehow, it didn't seem as daunting as it had a few days ago. It seemed like an idea full of promise, rather than dread.

I heard the shower running and realized that Sherlock was not in bed with me. I was relieved, remembering how we had ended the night. I was glad to be spared the awkwardness of waking up in a compromising position with my friend and flat-mate. Were things going to be weird between us now?

I got my clothes and toiletries together while I waited for Sherlock to finish in the bathroom. Before long he emerged with damp hair and wearing his customary suit.

"Sherlock, seriously! A suit? You realize that you're on vacation?"

He shrugged. "This is what I'm comfortable in."

After I finished my shower I came back out to find that Sherlock had waited for me. He was reading one of the books he had brought along with him. I noticed the subject was serial killers.

"A little light vacation reading?" I teased.

"It's a book I've been wanting to read for awhile. Now that I have nothing else to do, I can finally read it."

"I know, I'm just kidding Sherlock. I'm glad you've found something quiet and, er, restful to occupy yourself with."

We went downstairs to the breakfast room to find the Colonel already eating.

"Hello you two! How did you sleep?"

An image of myself and Sherlock curled against each other last night popped before my eyes, and I felt myself flush and unable to say anything immediately.

"Very comfortably, Mike, thank you," replied Sherlock smoothly.

For some reason this made me flush even deeper.

"Fantastic! Help yourselves," the Colonel gestured to the serving plates piled with food.

I was helping myself to toast and some scrambled eggs when Mrs. Brown came hurrying into the room.

"Oh Colonel! Have you heard the news?"

"I don't think so, what's happened?"

"Mr. Acton's place was broken into last night! I just got a call from Mrs. Howells about it."

"Wow, are they alright?" asked the Colonel.

"Yes, she said not much damage was done, but the burglars got away."

"Any clues as to who the burglars were?" asked Sherlock.

"No, they've no idea who it could have been."

The Colonel chuckled, "Sherlock, it's probably just a mundane burglary, not worth your interest, after working on the terrorist banking case."

Sherlock smiled. "I find all sorts of crimes interesting, it depends on the circumstances." He turned to Mrs. Brown, "was there anything unusual about the break-in?"

"I don't think so. Mrs. Howells said they broke into Mr. Acton's study and took only the novel he was currently reading, two silver candlesticks he had on the mantle, a letter opener with a carved ivory handle, the digital clock he had on his desk, a roll of Sellotape, and his old computer. Mr. Acton said the joke was on them, because the computer was over ten years old and he kept everything of importance on his laptop, which was in his bedroom at the time."

"And that was it? It seems strange to risk getting caught just for that," I said.

Mrs. Brown shrugged, "I suppose they were just grabbing whatever they saw."

Sherlock gave a grunt, then said, "The police should be able to figure it out. It's obvious that the burglars were - "

I cut him off, "Sherlock, let it go. As you said, the police can handle it. You're here to rest. Don't get started on something while you're trying to recover. Doctor's orders!"

I half expected Sherlock to get mad at me, but he shrugged his shoulders and smiled at me, sat down, and began dutifully eating his breakfast. Mrs. Brown returned to the kitchen.

"So," began the Colonel, "what do you boys want to do today? I have some business in town, but please treat the house and grounds as your own."

"I'd like to borrow your bicycle, " I said. When the Colonel and I had made plans before Sherlock's illness he had offered the use of his bicycle to tour the area. "I think Sherlock is planning on reading."

"Yes," Sherlock said, "but first I was hoping to get a tour of the gardens."

The Colonel beamed, "I'm sure John can do that, I took him over the property yesterday."

"Sure," I said.

After breakfast was over, Sherlock and I went walking around the gardens and lawns that still belonged to the house. When we got to the beehives, Sherlock suddenly became excited.

"You didn't tell me the Colonel had an apiary!"

"I didn't know that was important."

"I love bees, I thought you knew that."

"You...love...bees?"

"Well, love might be too strong a word, but I've always been fascinated by bees. I wanted a hive when I was a kid but my parents wouldn't let me have one. Apparently they were afraid they would kill me or something." Sherlock paused thoughtfully for a moment. "I'm going to read my book out here where I can watch the hives as well."

I looked anxiously at the sky. It had become cloudy and breezy, and it felt like rain was threatening.

"I don't know, Sherlock, it seems a little chilly for you to spend the day outdoors."

He looked at me, annoyed. "That's what you're planning on doing."

"I'm not the one recuperating," I pointed out.

Sherlock looked mutinous.

"OK," I sighed. "I won't make a fuss as long as you promise me to keep warm and to go inside if it starts raining. Besides, won't the bees stay inside anyway, if it rains?"

Sherlock agreed to this, so we went back inside the house to ask Mrs. Brown about a lawn chair for Sherlock.

When she learned of the plan, she produced an aluminum-frame lawn chaise-lounge, an old quilt and some pillows to make sure Sherlock could read and observe in total comfort. Sherlock seemed to be caught between annoyance and gratification over the fuss we made over ensuring his comfort.

Once Sherlock was installed with his book, notebook, a thermos of hot tea and the promise of biscuits, I left him to get ready for my bike ride. As I headed out, I circled the back of the property to see how Sherlock was getting on. As I rode by, I saw that Mrs. Brown had added a hat to the ensemble. It looked like an old-fashioned deerstalker, with the ear-flaps down. It seemed she had taken every precaution, so I rode off cheerfully, knowing that Sherlock was happy and in good, caring hands.

I spent a highly enjoyable day riding around the area, taking in the sights. Fortunately, the threatened rain never came. Because I had my breakfast so late, I skipped lunch entirely, and didn't return to the house until late afternoon.

I again cycled by the back of the property, to see how Sherlock was doing. The chaise-lounge was deserted, apparently Sherlock was in the house.

I put the bicycle away and headed up to our room. I walked in to find Sherlock lying on the bed, fully dressed but with his shoes off.

He glanced over at me, then stared.

"What?" I asked.

He opened his mouth but nothing came out.

"What's the matter? Did something happen while I was gone? Did you get stung?"

He shook his head. "No, I'm fine. I just...never saw you dressed like that before. I was surprised is all."

I was still dressed in my bicycle shorts and tunic. I had bought them for myself as a birthday gift, after the original plans had been made with the Colonel.

"Oh, yeah," I said glancing down, "they are a bit loud aren't they? But, the bright colors help with visibility."

I took the tunic off as I rummaged for some clean clothes. "I'm going to take a quick shower if that's ok, I don't want to stink up the place for tea-time."

"Yes, fine," Sherlock was busy putting on his shoes, "I was just going to head downstairs myself. I have to return a hat Mrs. Brown loaned to me." He was bent over, tying his shoes, then sat up, looking slightly flushed.

He grabbed the deerstalker from the dresser and put it on his head. It was a perfectly ridiculous hat, but once he put it on, something stirred inside me. It was almost a feeling of déjà-vu. It conjured up memories of our previous cases, of breathless pursuits, daring jumps, and thrilling successes. I noticed my heart beginning to beat faster.

"Ok," I said, trying to clear my head, "I'll see you downstairs."

As I turned hurriedly toward the bathroom, I caught a glimpse of Sherlock making for the bedroom door just as quickly.

To be continued...

A/N: I admit, a little silliness there at the end of the chapter.

:-)


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Just wanted to thank all of you who have reviewed or commented on this story. It really helps to keep my motivation up and the creative juices flowing!

Disclaimer: Still not mine...

The Adventure of the Country Birthday - 7

I took my quick shower and spent some time while in private to try and sort out this new strangeness between Sherlock and me. He was certainly - at times - acting very differently than he had before going to France. The question was, was this going to be a permanent change or was this a temporary by-product of his physical breakdown?

I came to the conclusion that it was most likely temporary. He had pushed himself to the absolute limit of his physical being while absorbed by the case. Once the case was over, and his will no longer forcing his body and mind into submission, his emotions had come tumbling out of the shattered walls of his exhausted psyche.

That he had come to regard me as some sort of oversized teddy bear would really not be so surprising if it were anyone but Sherlock. Patients routinely become emotionally dependent on their doctors, and even fall in love with them. The care and attention received by a person in a vulnerable state can be a very bewitching thing. And, for all his carefully constructed barriers, Sherlock was human, after all.

I mentally cursed myself for engaging in the cuddling we had done last night. It was not helpful in getting Sherlock back to his normal, functioning self. It was highly inappropriate for me to encourage behavior that certainly would not become normal for our relationship. We were NOT going to be sleeping together, especially not in each other's arms. As his doctor, I needed to encourage him to behave as an independent entity, not my personal body pillow.

After giving myself this strong lecture, I felt relieved and strengthened. I felt I had the situation sorted and could handle any situation as it might arise.

I went downstairs to find the Colonel had just arrived from town to join us for tea. We met Sherlock in the breakfast room, and there was no sign of the oddly distracting deerstalker hat. He had apparently returned it to Mrs. Brown, who was busy getting the tea and refreshments ready.

The three of us chatted over tea. The Colonel wanted to hear about my bike ride - where I had gone and what I had seen. Sherlock asked the Colonel some questions about his bees, but the Colonel admitted that they had been there when he took possession of the house and that he hadn't really done anything with them.

"They're pretty much on their own at this point," shrugged the Colonel.

Sherlock was even more interested by this information and indicated his intention to spend the next day studying the hives as well.

After tea, Sherlock disappeared upstairs saying he was going to research bees on his laptop. The Colonel and I spent some time looking over the weapon collection of the family, assembled by various members over the centuries.

Dinner and the rest of the evening passed in the same way. We three decided to call it an early night. The next day was Saturday and the Colonel and I made plans to go fishing while Sherlock observed the apiary.

I climbed the stairs to our bedroom, feeling a bit nervous. Last night getting into bed with Sherlock had been made easy with my inebriation. I didn't have that tonight and I was afraid that we would be feeling awkward. I was also rehearsing what I would say if Sherlock attempted to cuddle up with me again.

My worries were eased considerably when I went into the room and found that Sherlock was already in bed with his laptop, reading the screen intently. He barely looked up to acknowledge my arrival.

I was able to get my pajamas and change in the bathroom, brush my teeth and slip into bed with no embarrassment. As I laid down Sherlock got up and switched off the light, leaving his laptop on the bed.

"Will it bother you if I keep working on the laptop for awhile?" He asked.

"No, that's fine. I don't mind at all."

In fact, I was happy that Sherlock was distracted and therefore I wouldn't need to drag out any rehearsed speeches about vulnerability and inappropriate behavior. I felt my body relax, and a sense of relief washed over me. Aside from the fact that we were physically in the same bed, it seemed as if our relationship was going to return to normal.

It only took me a few minutes to fall asleep...

The next morning was just as the previous morning, except that I awoke when Sherlock left the bed to go shower. I lay in the bed, listening to the sound of the water running and felt contentment wash over me. The trip was going extremely well, Sherlock seemed happy, occupying himself in a way that didn't hinder his convalescence. I was having a good time, and the Colonel seemed to be enjoying our company.

We were downstairs at breakfast when this bubble of happiness burst.

Mrs. Brown came hurrying in to the breakfast room, extremely agitated, "Colonel!" She exclaimed, "Have you heard?"

"Have I heard what?"

"The Cunningham's!"

"Another burglary?" asked the Colonel setting down his cup of coffee.

"No! A murder!"

The Colonel whistled. "Good God! Who's been killed? The old man or the son?"

"Not them, their friend William Kirwan. He was shot through the heart and died almost immediately."

"Who shot him? Not the Cunninghams!" exclaimed the Colonel.

Mrs. Brown sat down and reached for a cup of tea. "It was a burglar, possibly the same one that broke into Mr. Acton's. He got away, though. He had just broken into the pantry when Mr. Kirwan discovered him and was killed for it."

"What time did this happen?"

"Last night, about twelve. I just got the news from Mrs. Howells."

The Colonel shook his head. "Well, I suppose I ought to go pay them a visit in a bit."

He patted Mrs. Brown's arm. "I'm sure the murderer will be caught."

Mrs. Brown gave a shaky smile and returned to the kitchen.

After she had gone the Colonel turned to us. "Mr. Cunningham is considered to be a pillar of our local community, a very nice man. This will devastate him, William Kirwan was a very old friend, lived in the old lodge on his property. I wonder if it is the same person that broke into Acton's."

"The strange burglar that stole that interesting assortment of junk?" asked Sherlock thoughtfully.

"Yes."

"Hmmmm...It might be nothing, but it is a little puzzling. Professional burglars in a sparsely populated neighborhood wouldn't normally want to break into two places in a few days. Why risk it when everyone is on guard? Is this normal in your experience?"

"It's probably somebody local," answered the Colonel, "which would make sense because Acton's and the Cunningham's are the largest estates around here."

"And the richest?" asked Sherlock.

"Well, they would be, but they've had a law-suit between them that's dragged on for years and has sucked most of the wealth out of both of them. Acton has claimed that half the Cunningham estate is rightly his. The only people in the case that are rich now are the lawyers each side has hired."

"Well, if it's somebody local the police shouldn't have much trouble finding him," said Sherlock yawning. "Don't worry, John, I'm not going to get involved."

Just then, there was a ringing at the doorbell.

"Excuse me," said the Colonel, "let me go see who that is."

After a moment the Colonel returned to the breakfast room with a visitor.

"John, Sherlock, this is Inspector Forrester."

He was a young man with a friendly face and lots of energy. He shook hands with both of us.

"Good morning to you both," he said. "I'm sorry I'm interrupting your breakfast, but I've heard about you, Mr. Holmes, and when I found out you were in the neighborhood I wanted to see you. I was hoping you would like to look into the Cunningham case with me."

Sherlock looked at my dismayed face and laughed.

"Fate seems to have conspired against you, John."

He looked over at the inspector, "We were just talking about the murder when you came in. Can you give us the details?"

He leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers under his chin, and I knew then, like it or not, ours had become a working vacation.

TBC...


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: For those of you familiar with the ACD stories, this will hopefully be nostalgic fun. For those of you who aren't...well, just enjoy! :-) (And please consider leaving a review or comment, it helps so, so much)!

Disclaimer: The plot of this chapter is the invention of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. No profits have been made by me. No disrespect is intended, quite the opposite.

The Adventure of the Country Birthday - 8

_Sherlock looked at my dismayed face and laughed. _

_"Fate seems to have conspired against you, John." _

_He looked over at the inspector, "We were just talking about the murder when you came in. Can you give us the details?"_

_He leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers under his chin, and I knew then, like it or not, ours had become a working vacation._

The inspector began:

"We didn't have anything to go on with the Acton burglary. There were no fingerprints or any other physical evidence found at the scene. But this is different, the suspect was seen."

"Ah!"

"Yes, Mr. Holmes. But he ran quickly after shooting poor William Kirwan. Mr. Cunningham saw him from his bedroom window, and Mr. Alec Cunningham saw him from the rear hallway of the house. It happened at a quarter to twelve. Mr. Cunningham had just gone to bed, and the son was smoking in his dressing gown. They both heard William calling for help, and young Mr. Cunningham ran downstairs to see what was going on. The back door was open, and when he got to the bottom of the stairs he saw two men wrestling outside. One of them fired a gun, the other fell, and the shooter ran across the garden and went over the hedge. Mr. Cunningham saw him from his bedroom window running down the road but the man ran quickly out of view. The son had stopped to see if he could help William, and so the killer got away. Our only description is that he was an average-sized man, dressed in dark clothing. Not much to go on, but if he is a stranger in the neighborhood, we should be able to find him."

"What was this friend William doing there? Did he say anything before he died?" asked Sherlock.

"Nothing, he died almost instantly. He lives at the old lodge on the Cunningham estate with his mother. He has been close friends with the Cunninghams for years, so we think he must have walked up to the house just to see that everything was alright there. The burglary at Acton's has made everybody nervous. The robber had apparently just broken in through the back door - the lock has been forced - and then William saw him."

"Did William say anything to his mother before he went out?"

"She is very old and deaf, and the shock has made her completely useless, she never was very bright. Anyway, we can't get any useful information from her. But, there is one very important article from the crime scene. Take a look!"

He produced an evidence bag from between the pages of his notebook. It contained a small piece of torn paper. He handed it over to Sherlock, who began studying it with interest.

"This was found between the finger and thumb of the dead man. It is obviously a piece of a larger piece of paper. The hour mentioned on it is the time when poor William was killed. The murderer and the victim must have wrestled for the paper, and the killer escaped with the larger part. But the scrap we have seems to indicate an appointment."

I looked over Sherlock's shoulder at the piece of paper, full of curiosity. It was handwritten and there were only three partial lines:

at quarter to twelve

learn what

maybe

The inspector continued, "If it was an appointment it could be that William Kirwan may have been an associate of the thief. He may have met him there and even helped break open the door, but then had a disagreement between the two of them."

"This writing is extremely interesting," said Sherlock, still examining the paper intently. "This case is much more complicated than I thought."

He put his head in his hands for a moment. The inspector looked pleased that the case merited the interest of my friend.

After a moment Sherlock continued, "The possibility that there might have been a plan between the burglar and William, and this is the note one wrote to the other, is a possibility. But this writing suggests..."

He put his head in his hands over the note on the table and continued to study it in silence. I couldn't see anything particularly interesting in the writing, aside from the words "quarter" and "to" were written so closely together that they almost appeared to be one word.

Sherlock eventually raised his head from the note, his face slightly flushed and his eyes bright with a hunger I was now familiar with. He leapt up from his chair, with all the energy he used to show before going to France.

"Inspector," he said, "I would like to look in to this case. There is something really fascinating here." He stopped suddenly and glanced at the Colonel and me.

"I mean, er, if you don't mind Colonel," he added.

"Of course not!" exclaimed the Colonel. "We would all consider it a great honor to receive your help."

"Great! Then I will leave with the Inspector to test out a few theories I have. I'll probably be back in about half an hour."

With that, he was off. The Colonel and I felt a little deflated to not be involved, although we didn't voice our feelings out loud. We agreed that we would put off our outing to wait and see what Sherlock might discover.

Thirty minutes passed, then an hour, then another thirty minutes, and finally the Inspector came back, but he was alone.

"Mr. Holmes is walking up and down in the field outside," he reported. "He wants all of us to go up to the Cunningham house together."

"To the Cunningham's?" the Colonel exclaimed with surprise.

"Yes, sir."

"What for?"

The Inspector shrugged. "I don't know for sure. He's been behaving very strangely, and he is very excited."

"It's ok," I said. "There's usually a method to his madness."

"More like madness in his method," muttered the Inspector.

He continued at a normal volume, "But, he's very impatient to start, so if you two are ready..."

The Colonel and I looked at each other and both said, "Sure!"

Sherlock was pacing up and down in the field outside with his hands in his pockets, staring at the ground. It was a sight I was very familiar with, although I had never seen it in this rural of a setting. It meant that he felt he was very close to a conclusion, and his mind was racing at speeds I could only imagine.

When we reached him, he looked at me with triumph in his eyes.

"This has been very interesting. John, this trip has been a huge success. I have had such fun this morning!"

"Did you go to the crime scene?" asked the Colonel.

"Yes, the Inspector and I have enjoyed our investigation together."

"And?" I prodded.

"Well, we have seen some very interesting things. Let's head for the house shall we? I'll tell you what we did as we go. First of all, we went to the morgue to see the body of the victim. He certainly died of a gunshot wound, as was reported."

"Did you doubt it?"

"I like to double-check everything for myself. Plus, I wanted to see if the body could give me further information. My inspection was not a waste of time. Then we interviewed Mr. Cunningham and his son, and they showed us the exact spot where the murderer had gone through the garden hedge to escape. That was very interesting."

I nodded, "Of course."

"Next we visited the victim's mother. As the Inspector has said, she is very old and feeble and we got no useful information from her."

"What was the result of the investigation?" I was beginning to get impatient.

"That this crime is a very strange one. I am hoping that our visit to the Cunningham's will make things a little clearer. The Inspector and I both agree that the paper in the victim's hand, with the message containing the hour he died is extremely important. Whoever wrote that note brought William out of his house at that time. But where is the rest of that note?"

"I searched the crime scene carefully, hoping to find it," said the Inspector.

"It was taken from the dead man's hand. Why? Because it incriminated the killer. What would he do with it? He probably shoved it in his pocket, and in the dark might not have noticed that the corner we have had been left behind. If we could find the rest of that note, we will probably solve the mystery."

"Yes," agreed the Inspector, "but how can we search the criminal's pockets before we catch the criminal?"

"Excellent point!" Sherlock exclaimed patting the Inspector on the shoulder, "it is a pleasure to work with you. Here we are at the lodge, where William lived. Just a bit further and I will show you the scene of the crime."

We passed the quaint cottage where the murder victim had lived, and walked up the tree-lined road to the large house. We followed Sherlock and the Inspector around to the side gate, which was separated by a garden from the hedge which lined the road. A constable was standing at the back door.

"Open the door, please, officer," asked Sherlock, "it was on those stairs that Alec Cunningham stood and saw the two men struggling right where we're standing. Old Mr. Cunningham was at that window - the second on the left - and he saw the murderer get away just to the left of that bush. So did Alec. They are both sure of it, because of the bush. Then Alec ran out and knelt down by William. The ground is very hard, and there are no traces to help us."

As Sherlock was speaking two men came down the garden path, from around the side of the house. One was an elderly man with a deeply lined, puffy-eyed face. The other one was a young man in his twenties, who had a bright, smiling expression. It seemed strange to me that he was so cheerful after holding a dying friend only hours earlier.

"Still investigating?" asked the young man. "I thought you Londoners were smarter than that. You don't seem all that smart after all."

I decided I didn't like Alec Cunningham.

"Well, give us a little time," said Sherlock with a friendly smile.

I was very surprised, I was expecting Sherlock to say something to cut him down.

"I suppose you'll need lots of time," replied Alec, "you don't have anything to go on."

The Inspector spoke up, "Well, we have - _oh my God! Mr. Holmes!_"

Sherlock had taken a few staggering steps, groaned, then collapsed on the ground in a crumpled heap.

TBC...


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: Thanks again to all who support this story.

Disclaimer: Still not mine. Just having fun...no profits...etc...

The Adventure of the Country Birthday - 9

_"Still investigating?" asked the young man. "I thought you Londoners were smarter than that. You don't seem all that smart after all."_

_I decided I didn't like Alec Cunningham._

_"Well, give us a little time," said Sherlock with a friendly smile._

_I was very surprised, I was expecting Sherlock to say something to cut him down._

_"I suppose you'll need lots of time," replied Alec, "you don't have anything to go on."_

_The Inspector spoke up, "Well, we have - oh my God! Mr. Holmes!"_

_Sherlock had taken a few staggering steps, groaned, then collapsed on the ground in a crumpled heap._

I was instantly by his side, checking his pulse and respiration, carefully running my hands over him, checking for injuries from the fall. Almost instantly, he began to come around.

"John," he said quietly, and blinked up at me.

"Sherlock, are you in any pain?"

"No, please help me up."

"Can we take him inside?" I asked.

"Of course, please..." Mr. Cunningham ushered us into the kitchen and we got Sherlock into a large chair.

His pulse was steady and strong, and he apparently had not hit his head in the fall. He leaned back in the chair and breathed deeply for a few minutes. I was angry at myself for letting him work so hard while he was still weak. He was clearly not strong enough to be resuming his normal activities.

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at the five of us, clearly embarrassed.

"I am sorry, Dr. Watson can tell you that I have just recovered from a serious illness," he explained. "I forgot that I still don't have my full strength back."

"Do you want us to drive you home?" asked Mr. Cunningham.

Sherlock sighed, "Well, since I'm here, there is something that I want to check. We can easily verify it."

"What is it?"

"Well, I've been wondering if it's possible that your friend William arrived after the burglar entered the house. You've taken it for granted that even though the door had been forced open that the robber never got in."

Mr. Cunningham replied, "It's obvious that he never got in. My son Alec had not gone to bed yet, and he would have heard anyone moving inside the house."

"Where was he sitting?"

"I was sitting smoking in my bedroom," said Alec.

"Which window is that?"

"The last one on the left, next to my father's."

"Both of you had your lights on?"

"Yes."

"That seems strange," said Sherlock with a smile. "Why would a burglar with previous experience break into a house when he could see from the lights that two of the family were still awake?"

"He must have been very confident in his abilities," said Mr. Cunningham.

Alec chimed in, "Well of course the case is strange, otherwise we wouldn't be asking you for help explaining it. But your idea that the burglar had robbed the house before William tackled him is silly. We would have found the place ransacked and noticed the items he'd taken were missing."

"It depends on what the things were," said Sherlock. "This burglar is a very strange man with unique tastes. Look at the things he took from Acton's: the Sellotape, a letter opener, an old computer and other junk."

"Well, we need your help, Mr. Holmes," said Mr. Cunningham. "If you and the Inspector suggest anything we will do it."

"First of all," said Sherlock, "I suggest you offer a reward - coming from yourself because it will take a while for the officials would process something like that. But the sooner you make the offer the more likely it is that someone would come forward with information. I have written up a possible offer to submit to the local paper. If you sign it I will turn it in to them. I think five thousand pounds would be enough."

"I'd be happy to offer fifty thousand," said Mr. Cunningham.

He took the form and pen that Sherlock handed to him.

"You've made a mistake, though," he added, as he read the document.

"I wrote it in a hurry," Sherlock admitted.

"You wrote that the attempted burglary was at a quarter to one, but it was a quarter to twelve."

I felt embarrassed for Sherlock because I knew that he would be upset at himself for the slip up. He always was meticulous about getting facts correct, but apparently his recent breakdown was still affecting him mentally as well as physically.

Alec Cunningham broke out in a mocking laugh and the Inspector raised his eyebrows at Sherlock, who looked at his feet, clearly embarrassed. I clenched my fists, fighting the urge to give Alec the punch in the nose I felt he deserved. Mr. Cunningham corrected the mistake on the form and handed the paper back to Sherlock.

"Have it published as soon as possible," he said. "I think it's an excellent idea."

Sherlock tucked the paper carefully away in his jacket.

"I'm feeling much better now," he said, "I think it would be a good idea if we go through the house together and make sure that this strange burglar did not actually steal anything."

The others agreed, but I said nothing because I wanted Sherlock to stop and rest. I gave him a stern look, and he responded with a pleading one. I shrugged slightly, and frowned again, indicating I was willing to go along for now, but was not pleased.

The first thing Sherlock did was to study the door that had been forced open. It was clearly evident that a chisel or large knife had forced the lock back, the marks in the wood were very clear.

"You don't use dead-bolts?" asked Sherlock.

"We've never thought about it before, it's never been an issue."

"You don't have a dog?"

"No."

"Do you have a live-in housekeeper?"

"Yes."

"What time does she go to bed?"

"About ten."

"Was it usual for William to come to visit late at night?"

"Sometimes, but we weren't expecting him that night."

"Hmmm...I wonder why he was coming to see you on that particular night. Well, I'm done here, if you don't mind, I'd like to see the rest of the house Mr. Cunningham."

We went up the back staircase to the first floor of the house where we came out on the landing opposite to the more ornamental front staircase that led up from the front hall. On the landing were the doorways to the sitting-room and several bedrooms, including Mr. Cunningham's and his son's. Sherlock was walking slowly, mentally noting the architecture of the house. I could tell that he was suppressing his excitement. He obviously felt that he was close to a conclusion.

Mr. Cunningham began to complain, "Mr. Holmes, I think this is unnecessary. That is my room at the end of the stairs, and my son's is the one after it. In your judgment is it really possible that the thief could've come up here without us noticing?"

"I think you are wandering a bit from the trail," said Alec with a vicious smile. I again suppressed an urge to hit him.

"Please, just humor me a bit more. I'd like to see the view from the windows of the bedrooms. This is your son's room?" Sherlock pushed open the door.

"This is where he sat smoking when the incident happened?"

Sherlock walked around the room, looking out the window.

"I hope you are satisfied now?" asked Mr. Cunningham grumpily.

"Thank you, I've seen all I need to here. Now for your room?"

Mr. Cunningham shrugged his shoulders and led us into his bedroom which was fairly plain and looked like a typical bedroom. As we all headed for the window Sherlock delayed until he and I were behind the group. Near the bed was a small table where there was an arrangement of flowers (probably taken from the beautiful garden outside) in a glass vase with ornamental marbles at the bottom. As he walked by it Sherlock leaned over and knocked the table over. The glass vase smashed into pieces and the marbles rolled all around the room.

"John!" Sherlock exclaimed, "look at the mess you've made!"

I was confused, but immediately knelt down and picked up the table and then began to pick up the pieces of glass and nearby marbles. I could see that for some reason Sherlock wanted me to take the blame for what he had done.

"Mr. Cunningham," I said, "I'm so sorry!" I sounded as shaken as I felt.

The others joined in the hunt for the glass shards, flowers, and marbles scattered all around the floor.

After a few minutes, the Inspector exclaimed, "Where's Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock was missing from the room.

"Wait here," Alec told us. "I think he's crazy. Come with me, dad and let's see where he went!"

They ran out leaving the Inspector, the Colonel, and me staring at each other.

"I think I agree with Alec," said the Inspector. "It might be that he isn't well because it seems - "

He was interrupted by a frantic cry from Sherlock, "Help! _Help!_ _JOHN!"_

And then there was abrupt, ominous silence.

TBC...


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: This chapter is actually going to be a bit more violent than I first anticipated. Nothing graphic or gory, but a little intense. No death, though. Also: one swear word.

Disclaimer: Still not mine...

The Adventure of the Country Birthday -10

_"Help! Help! JOHN!"_

I am in many ways an ordinary man. I'm ordinary looking, ordinary sized, middle-class, even my name is very ordinary. I've had some extraordinary experiences, of course, having suffered a life-threatening injury in Afghanistan, and of course, the experiences with a certain consulting detective. I also have an above-average education, being a medical doctor.

But, there is one thing that I truly believe might set me apart from most people: and that is my response to moments of extreme crisis. I can't truly claim credit for it, since I appear to have had this ability since childhood, and so it must be some form of innate talent. Many people describe such moments with the sensation of time slowing down, such as an auto accident that seems to happen in slow-motion. That's the way it is for me as well, the difference is I seem to be able to use that time-slowing effect with above-average efficiency.

I first noticed this ability as a child, when I was able to escape what would surely have been a lethal dog attack. The bitch (and here I use the term quite correctly) gave no warning, no bark or growl, but leapt straight for my throat. I saw her launch, plotted her trajectory, and was able to also calculate an appropriate escape route that would get me to safety before she could land and redirect herself toward me. The entire episode, including the successful escape, was approximately three seconds. The extremely apologetic dog-owner said he'd never seen anything like it. My father, who had been with me, was extremely proud (after he recovered from the initial fright and then subsequent anger toward the previously mentioned dog-owner).

This ability to calmly think, plan, and react physically in these situations was, to say the least, of great benefit in Afghanistan and it's certain it saved my life there as well. The first time this ability impacted Sherlock was the night I killed the cabbie. Once I realized Sherlock didn't hear my call it was a matter of seconds to open the window and line up the shot that I never hesitated to make, once I knew Sherlock had made his decision to take that damn pill. I also had planned my escape route in those seconds, so that (I thought at the time) no one would ever know that it was me who shot the cabbie.

So, when I heard Sherlock's first frantic call of "help" I instantly went into that mode. I looked at the door, I could see exactly where my footsteps would fall, and where to land to pivot most effectively in the doorway. By Sherlock's second call of "help" I was in motion, and had made the hallway by the time of his call of my name. I had processed exactly who was attacking him and where. It probably took me just over a second to make the few strides required to get to Alec's bedroom. Then Sherlock's alarming silence had registered with me, and my extreme focus only intensified.

In the doorway of Alec's bedroom I saw the three figures of Sherlock and the Cunninghams. They had Sherlock pinned to the floor. The old man had Sherlock's right arm underneath him and was twisting his wrist. But Alec had Sherlock by the throat with a murderous rage on his face. Sherlock was a frightening shade of purple, but still moving. I wasn't too late.

With no hesitation I launched myself at Alec, my plan already fully-formed. Intent on Sherlock, he never saw me coming. My training as a doctor and a soldier made it so simple: I was going to kill Alec Cunningham. As my body collided with his, knocking us both away from Sherlock my blood was singing fiercely in my veins. I was flooded, not with anger but with vengeful joy. This was _perfect_! I pinned him to the floor, all my weight knocking the wind from his chest and my legs on his arms. I felt as if I could laugh, and maybe I did. I know that I did smile down at Alec, I remember baring my teeth with it, like something feral. I waited a second, quite intentionally, for his eyes to clear from the stun he received from our collision. I wanted him to _see_ his death in my eyes.

In the background, I heard commotion, undoubtedly the Inspector and the Colonel were in the process of following me. I knew that they could handle the old man while I dealt with Alec. I put my hands around his neck just _there_ to crush his windpipe. I was going to squeeze until I saw the blood blossom in his eyes. _This_ is what I had been unknowingly training for all my life. _This_ was what I was meant to do for as long as I was able. The brilliant idiot would always be getting into danger, and I would always be there to protect him. I almost, _almost_ felt a little sorry for Alec Cunningham for being foolish enough to think that he could launch a murderous attack on Sherlock in my presence and live.

I had just carefully settled my hands on Alec's throat and begun to squeeze in earnest when a voice bellowed, "WATSON! STOP!" in my ear. My army training recognized the voice of a trusted command. I relaxed my hands but didn't let go. The Colonel came into view and grabbed my arms.

"Sherlock is OK!" he shouted at me.

I nodded tightly, and removed my hands from Alec's neck. I hesitated to get off of him, until I heard the gasping breath of Sherlock behind me. That prompted me to check on him, so I got off Alec "accidently" grinding a knee into his gut as I rose. I saw the Colonel move in to take my place.

A few seconds assured me that Sherlock would be ok. His throat would be bruised, but fortunately Alec hadn't known where best to squeeze to cause serious damage.

As soon as Sherlock could speak he gasped, "Arrest these men, Inspector, for the murder of their friend William Kirwan!"

The Inspector stared for a second, but seemed to recover from the shock quickly. It was clear that their attack on Sherlock was prompted by the need to hide something of importance.

Mr. Cunningham stood looking confused and angry. Alec was struggling with the Colonel on the floor, temporarily voiceless thanks to me, but clearly still in a murderous rage. I was careful to keep myself in front of Sherlock, in the unlikely event that he managed to get out of the Colonel's grip.

"Well, we'll start with the assault on Mr. Holmes at least," said the Inspector and he called the constable up from downstairs.

We were distracted by a clatter on the floor. Alec Cunningham, who was still struggling had somehow produced a handgun which the Colonel managed to force him to drop.

"And now we'll be adding attempted murder, " said the inspector

Sherlock quickly put his foot on the gun.

"Keep that," he said. "It's probably the murder weapon and should be useful for the trial. But this is what I wanted."

He held up a little crumpled piece of paper.

"The rest of the note!" exclaimed the Inspector.

"Exactly."

"Where was it?"

"Where I thought it would be. I'll explain shortly. However, I think I would breathe a bit easier," Sherlock rubbed his neck, "if these two were put into custody."

The rest of the day was spent in medical checks, going to the police station, filling out witness statements and other such things. Eventually everything was finished and we went back to the Colonel's house.

Sherlock asked if the Colonel would mind inviting Mr. Acton over before giving his explanation of the case, since it involved him as well. The Colonel agreed enthusiastically.

Within the hour Mr. Acton, the Colonel, Mrs. Brown, Sherlock and myself had all gathered in the breakfast room over tea and a delicious carrot cake baked by Mrs. Brown.

"Well," Sherlock began, "first I feel I have to apologize to you, Colonel, for involving you in the violence this afternoon. You probably regret having extended your invitation to include me."

"It's Mike, Sherlock," the Colonel reminded him, "and don't apologize! It's been very exciting to be involved with your work. I can't wait to hear how you came to your conclusions because I don't see how you were able to solve the case at all."

"Well, I hope that my explanation won't disappoint you, because my methods really are quite simple. But I've always been happy to explain them to John or anyone else who has an interest in them. Before I get started, though, I am going to drink Mrs. Brown's excellent tea. My throat is still sore from earlier."

I broke in, "If you aren't up to giving us the explanation right now, Sherlock, we can wait. I don't want you collapsing again. You've been through an awful lot today."

Sherlock turned and smiled at me fondly. "Don't worry yourself, John. I think my explanation may reassure you. And later, you can order me on bed rest or whatever you think I might need."

After he had his tea Sherlock spoke again, "So I'll just start at the beginning and point out the things that brought me to my decision. Interrupt me if there is anything that isn't clear."

TBC...

A/N: Sorry to have to end it here, but I hated leaving the story with such a cliffhanger as the previous chapter. The next chapter will have Sherlock's explanation.


	11. Chapter 11

The Adventure of the Country Birthday - 11

_After he had his tea Sherlock spoke again, "So I'll just start at the beginning and point out the things that brought me to my decision. Interrupt me if there is anything that isn't clear."_

"One of the most important aspects of the science of deduction is to recognize from a collection of facts which are important and which are not. Otherwise, you will waste energy and time. In this case there was no doubt in my mind that the key of the whole case was in the scrap of paper in the dead man's hand. If Alec Cunningham had been telling the truth, if the murderer had _instantly_ fled after shooting William Kirwan, then it wasn't the murderer who had torn the paper from William's hand. But if it wasn't the murderer, then it had to have been Alec himself, because Mr. Cunningham and the housekeeper quickly arrived. It was rather obvious, but the Inspector missed it, because he assumed that the Cunninghams were telling him the truth. I strive to never make assumptions and merely follow where the facts lead me and so from the very beginning I was suspicious of Alec Cunningham. Next I carefully examined the piece of paper that the Inspector brought to us. It was obviously part of a larger note. Here is a copy. Look at it and tell me if you see something odd about it."

"The writing has an irregular look to it," said the Colonel.

"Exactly!" said Sherlock. "It has been written by two people doing alternate words. Look at the difference in the t's of 'at' and 'to' and the t's in 'quarter' and 'twelve'. It is very obvious. 'Learn' and 'maybe' are written by one person and 'what' was written by the other."

"Yes!" said the Colonel with excitement. "I see it when you point it out. Why would two people write a note like that?"

"Mistrust of each other. Whatever was done, both would be equally guilty."

"Amazing!" exclaimed Mr. Acton.

"Fairly simple deduction," shrugged Sherlock. "There were twenty-three other deductions I made regarding the handwriting, but I won't bore you by going through all of them. I'll sum up that the writing suggested two related writers of different generations. Of course, this deepened my suspicions about the story of the Cunninghams, because the evidence suggested that they very well be the writers of this letter. My next step was to examine all the details of the crime and to see if any of them could help us. I went to the morgue with the Inspector. The wound on the dead man was fired by a gun from a distance of at least four yards. There was no gunpowder on the clothes. Therefore, Alec Cunningham was lying when he said that the two men were struggling when the shot was fired. Both father and son agreed on the place where the man escaped to the road. At that point there is a wide ditch which is moist at the bottom. There were no indications of footprints in or around the ditch. I became absolutely sure that the Cunninghams were both lying and there never was any unknown man there at all. So what was the motive for killing their long-time friend? To try and answer that question I tried to solve the case of the original burglary at Mr. Acton's. The Colonel, er, Mike, had told us that there was a law-suit between you, Mr. Acton, and the Cunninghams. It seemed to me that they broke into your study to steal your computer in order to get some information that might be important to the case."

"Of course!" said Mr. Acton. "It makes sense now. I have legal right to half their estate, but the proof is in a single document I have in a secure location. They probably thought they could find it either in the study or on my computer. If they could find the original document or find out its location and destroy it, it would have ruined my case."

"There you go!" smiled Sherlock. "It was a reckless move, one I suspect was done by Alec. When he didn't find the original document, he took the old computer that was in the study, probably hoping to get some information from it, and a few other things to try and make it look like an ordinary burglary. Anyway, most of all, I wanted the missing part of the note. I was sure that Alec had torn it from William's hand and that he probably put it in the pocket of whatever he was wearing. Where else would he have put it in just one instant? The only question was: was it still there? It was worth a try, so we went to the Cunninghams'. Remember, they met us outside the kitchen door. It was important that they not be reminded about the note or else they would destroy it immediately. The Inspector was about to mention it when _luckily _I had my collapse and managed to distract him."

The Colonel started laughing. "Well, I guess our sympathy was wasted on you!"

I didn't find it so funny. I glared at Sherlock, but he refused to meet my eyes.

"Well," Sherlock said a bit quickly, "when I recovered I managed to get Mr. Cunningham to write the word 'twelve' so that I could compare it with the 'twelve' on the paper."

I glared at Sherlock again.

"I could see that you were hurting for me over my apparent mistake," said Sherlock. "I'm sorry, John."

There was an unexpected note in his voice that startled me. I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. So I shut it again and nodded. He gave me a quick smile and went on.

"So, we went upstairs together and when we went into Alec's bedroom and I saw his dressing-gown hanging on the door, I used the distraction of tipping over the table to run back and start checking the pockets. It was there, just as I had hoped - a bit lucky - when the two of them caught me and would have murdered me immediately if it weren't for your quick action."

Sherlock stopped again, and gave me a significant look. I felt myself flush. I looked at the livid marks on his neck and swallowed. He would have bruises, bad ones, but it could have been so much worse.

Sherlock closed his eyes and gave a slight shudder and massaged the wrist that Mr. Cunningham had twisted.

"Mr. Cunningham tried to get the paper from me. They knew then that I had figured it all out, and they just went mad with desperation. The Inspector let me have a talk with Mr. Cunningham later at the station while we were filling out all the reports. He had lost all fight by then, Alec, however is another story. The Inspector tells me he's on suicide watch. But, Mr. Cunningham has made a full confession to everything. Apparently William Kirwan had found out about the burglary at Mr. Acton's. He saw the computer in the house before they had it hidden away. He made a joke about it, but Alec didn't trust him not to report them. Alec used the burglary scare to get rid of him. William was lured up to the house and shot, and if Alec had managed to get the whole note, or paid a little more attention to the missing piece it is very possible that they would have got away with the murder."

"So what did the note say?" I asked.

Sherlock placed a copy of it in front of us:

If you will come at quarter to twelve

to the east gate you will learn what

will surprise you and maybe

benefit you and also

Annie Morrison. Don't say anything to anyone

"Of course, we don't know what the relationship was between William Kirwan and this Annie Morrison. It will all come out in the police investigation. But, whoever she is, her name worked as bait to lure William to his death."

"How was the note delivered?" I asked.

"Ah! The Inspector showed great promise by following up on that. By the time he came to see us he knew that it had been mailed. Of course, any electronic message could be easily traced."

Sherlock paused, then patted me on the arm.

"John, this was a brilliant idea. I'm so glad you brought me out here to help celebrate your birthday!"

TBC...

A/N: The next chapter will be the final one, with the popularly demanded cuddling. :-)


	12. Chapter 12

The Adventure of the Country Birthday - 12

_"John, this was a brilliant idea. I'm so glad you brought me out here to help celebrate your birthday!"_

The five of us finished our tea and carrot cake. We continued to chat and to speculate on what would become of the Cunninghams and the outcome of the lawsuit.

After a while Mr. Acton insisted on taking us all out to dinner. Mrs. Brown politely refused, saying that she wanted to make us something "really special" to celebrate the success of the day, and that she would have it ready for us when we returned.

So, it was four of us that went to dinner in town. We ate at a small Italian restaurant, similar to Angelo's in London. To my great surprise, Sherlock accepted a glass of wine when the bottle arrived. Sherlock doesn't normally drink at all, especially with people he doesn't know well.

I was very pleased to see him eat most of his seafood linguine. After he finished his first glass of wine Sherlock had another, and then another. It was the most I had ever seen him drink in one evening. It was certainly beginning to affect him, he could barely keep his eyes open. When I considered what he had been through that day, I wasn't surprised.

When we had finished dinner and the conversation lagged a bit I decided enough was enough.

"As Sherlock's doctor, I have to insist that he go home and get some rest."

The other two agreed and Mr. Acton paid the bill and the Colonel got his car. We took Mr. Acton home and by that time Sherlock was fast asleep in the back seat.

Mr. Acton whispered his thanks and goodbyes and I took the front seat of the car for the drive back to the Colonel's.

"He going to be ok?" asked the Colonel.

"Yeah, he'll have some nasty bruises for awhile, but no permanent damage."

The Colonel nodded. "I'd apologize for the very unrestful time he's had, if it didn't seem as if he'd enjoyed it so much."

I chuckled quietly. "I think it's done him a lot of good, in spite of the close call today. He did get a lot of rest, and Mrs. Brown's been able to get quite a bit of food into him. He enjoyed the bees and, aside from the assault, greatly enjoyed the unexpected bonus of a case. He's probably going to want to go home tomorrow."

"And so you'll be leaving."

I shrugged. "I think he's ready. And I'll still be keeping an eye on him."

"Don't you always?"

"Well, yeah."

We exchanged a smile.

"I've really enjoyed having you guys. Feel free to come any time."

"Thanks, Mike. But be careful! With an offer like that, and such a precedence as this, Sherlock may show up for every stolen bicycle."

We shared a quiet chuckle.

When we got back to the house, I went and woke Sherlock up.

"C'mon Sherlock, we're back. Get up so you can go to bed."

"Not yet," Sherlock complained, "Mrs. Brown's dessert, first."

"That's right!" said the Colonel, "I forgot!"

The three of us made our way to the breakfast room, Sherlock staggering a bit from drink and/or fatigue. When we got there we were greeted by a small but spectacular chocolate cake covered in strawberries next to a bucket of ice holding a chilled bottle of sparkling dessert wine.

An hour later the three of us had devoured the cake and emptied the bottle, by then I had to almost carry Sherlock up the stairs and to the bedroom.

We said good night to Mike and shut the door. Sherlock made his way to the bed and flopped down with a sigh.

"Right, Sherlock, get your pajamas on and get in bed."

Sherlock made an indistinct grumbling noise. I sighed. It looked like it was going to be up to me.

I went over to him, slumped over sideways on the bed and started taking off his shoes and socks.

He opened up his eyes and smiled blearily down at me.

"You're a cheap date, Sherlock Holmes," I chuckled, "a few glasses of wine and I'm taking off your clothes."

Sherlock gave an offended huff, "Not cheap. " He yawned, "Just tired."

I sat him up and began taking off his jacket. "I can imagine, after the day you've had."

I got his jacket off and took it over to the closet to hang it up. As I turned around to come back, I saw that Sherlock had got off the bed and toddled over to me. He pulled me into an awkward hug, hunched unsteadily over me and swaying slightly.

"John," he breathed into my ear, "I'm sorry for worrying you." His breath smelled like wine, chocolate, and strawberries.

"Here, let's get you back on the bed," I said, worried that he might topple over.

I got him sat back on the bed and began unbuttoning his shirt.

"I wish I would have known that you faked the collapse and the mistake, but I can see now that you never really had the chance to warn me ahead of time. You're forgiven."

I slid his shirt off and tossed it into a pile of dirty clothes we had begun. I began unbuckling his belt and asked, "Where are your pajamas?"

Sherlock waved vaguely and then said, "I'll just sleep in my underwear."

"Ok, well, can you stand up for a second and I'll get your trousers off?"

Once he had stepped out of them, putting his hands on my shoulders to balance he collapsed back on the bed.

I hung the trousers up in the closet as well, then came back to the bed. I sat down next to Sherlock's prone body.

"Can I take one more look at your neck before you go to sleep?" I asked.

He rolled over onto his back and raised up his chin. I ran my hands over his neck, checking for damage. He had been checked over at the hospital earlier, but I had to satisfy my own mind that there was nothing to worry about. I pressed a few spots, asking him what hurt and what didn't.

"How about your fingers and toes? Any tingling?"

"No."

"Any difficulty breathing?"

"No."

"Turn your head side to side for me."

As he did that, I carefully ran my hands over the bruises left by Alec Cunningham. I fought down a sudden wave of anger. I noticed Sherlock watching me through half-lidded, sleepy eyes. I decided it was time for me to quit worrying and go to bed myself.

After I was done getting ready for bed, I slipped under the covers, assuming that Sherlock was probably already asleep. However, after I had settled in, he came scooting over and draped himself over me like he had the night before last.

While I was trying to formulate a response to this action Sherlock began speaking again.

"John, you're the first person who's every hurt for me before."

"What? What do you mean?"

"Today, when you felt bad for my pretend mistake. I could see that you were hurt and embarrassed for me. No one has ever felt that way for me before."

I paused, then said, "I don't think you're being fair to your brother when you say that. I know that he feels hurt for you when you hurt."

"Mmmmm," grumbled Sherlock against my chest, "well if that's true, the way he demonstrates it is annoying."

I chuckled softly, "Maybe so. Just try to remember the sentiment is real, though."

"Ok," he muttered. After a moment he raised his head to look up at me. "John, I want to go home."

His fruity and chocolaty breath came ghosting up to me. I felt a little guilty for not having made him brush his teeth before bed, but not guilty enough to take action at this point.

"Sure, we can go home tomorrow, if you get good sleep tonight and I feel you're rested enough."

He took the hint, "Goodnight John." He put his head back down on my chest.

"Goodnight."

I realized after a second that I had unconsciously put my arms around him as he cuddled against me. I sighed to myself, but then thought, _well, I could have lost him today, I think that makes hugging him acceptable doesn't it?_

And, we'd be home tomorrow and then things would get back to normal.

So, I squeezed him thankfully to me for a second or two, causing him to rumble contentedly against me, and then in a few minutes I was asleep as well.

The End!

A/N: Thanks to all who have followed this story. I would love to hear your reactions now that it's finished. Obviously, I now have to make some revisions to "The Air Conditioner" which takes place after this story.

After I make those revisions I'll start on a new story. It will be about the murder of Mummy Holmes, which was first mentioned in "The Adventure of the Swinging Snitch".


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